It must be difficult to emerge from the
shadow of a ten-year-long, critically acclaimed project as prolific
as The Books. Few solo projects reach the heights of the acts that
begot them, and in Nick Zammuto's case, the hope here is that his new
output – creatively titled “Zammuto” - will somehow be
comparable to one of the most innovative and beloved projects in
experimental pop and sound collage in the last decade. It would be
nice if it was possible to separate the two acts and evaluate this
new venture on its own individual terms, but the reality is that
there's probably no one who will write about Zammuto (the band)
without mentioning Zammuto (the musician's) resume, and in this case
especially, it's extremely difficult to avoid.
Nick Zammuto has a lot going for his
first self-titled album. Some of the elements and ideas that made
The Books' recordings so compelling make appearances here from time
to time - the curated snippets of bizarre audio from anonymous
sources, carefully constructed but sometimes chaotic sounding
progression, digitally processed vocals, exacting wit and clever
wordplay. There are a few songs (“Too Late Topologize”
“Harlequin” “The Shape Of Things To Come”) which would be
right at home on any Books record, and then there are those that
would somehow not. These contain a kind of straight-forwardness
that obliterates the mystery, beauty, precision, and whimsy that made
The Books what it is. At best, the indignant, driving undertones of
“F U C-3PO” improve on the ambiguity that marked Zammuto's prior
work (though what he has against beloved the Star Wars character is
not made apparent). But at its most cloying, the jam-band tendencies
of “Groan Man, Don't Cry” might make some Books fans want to
groan and cry, and the disembodied female androids “rapping”
through the entirety of “Zebra Butt” seem, well, asinine.
Overall, however, the record is a triumphant experiment in the same
spirited vein as the music Zammuto made as one half of The Books, yet
sets itself apart just enough for these explorations and new
additions to remain interesting (stream it below via the band's soundcloud).
Nick Zammuto met Paul de Jong in 1999
as tenants in the same New York City apartment building, but it
wasn't until six years and two and half albums later that they
finally started touring, screening unique and often hilarious video
collages of found material during the shows. For Zammuto, Nick's
wasted no time in assembling a group of considerably talented band
members and embarking on a proper tour, borrowing some elements from
his former musical project but creating something that is wholly
different. That tour culminated at Glasslands last Monday, with
Lymbyc Systym opening.
Lymbyc Systym is a two piece that
sounds like a band five times its size. Hailing from Tempe, Arizona
(but now based in Brooklyn), brothers Jared and Michael Bell make
earnest, transcendent post rock. Their intricate compositions are
thought out to the most minute detail and replicated live with
stunning exactness. Having not released an album since 2009, this
particular set featured plenty of new material, much of it tinged
R&B beats and influences. Though there's very little to see
onstage – Jared hunches over some electronic equipment, while
Michael drums beneath a swath of dark curls – the sounds they make
take on a breathing, seething life of their own, instantly occupying
every inch of space from floor to ceiling. While the nostalgic
undertones are at some points crushing, there is no room for
pretentiousness and it never really has a chance to rear its head.
For having played with so many huge names in indie rock, the pair
have remained humble, and that nonchalance somehow makes their music
seem that much more potent. They were joined on stage for a few
songs by a friend with a violin, the strings adding sweetness and
drama in just the right amounts.
When Zammuto took the stage it was not
Nick as soloist, but Zammuto as a full band, joined by brother Mikey
on bass, Sean Dixon on drums, and Gene Back (who had also played
intermittently with The Books) on keys and additional guitars. Like
an actual extension of the mood introduced by album's first track
(entitled “Yay”) there was a collective, ecstatic enthusiasm so
apparent it could have been a fifth band member. The sense that it
gave me was so different from having seen The Books; whereas The
Books wanted to tickle at thought processes, Zammuto's live show is
all about the act of playing. Nick in particular seems so motivated
by desire to expand on a live sound and share it with anyone willing
to bear witness that it's hard not to respect - though it is
slightly ironic when you consider that he manufactures most of these
sounds by himself, holed up in a shed behind the eco-house which he
inhabits with his wife and children in the sprawling countryside of
rural Vermont.
In terms of visual stimuli, Zammuto
also had something to offer, though the projections here were less
choreographed and a bit more random that the video pairings I'd seen
at Books shows. A bit more akin to Found Footage Fest or Everything
is Terrible, the first projection was a chopped and screwed how-to
for finger skateboarding, while another took stock photos of actors
“experiencing” back pains, headaches, and otherwise twisting
their faces and contorting their bodies into unpleasant shapes. But
the most intriguing video was one that actually formed a song – for
“The Greatest Autoharp Solo of All Time”, Zammuto took the sights
and sounds of a Bob Bowers-led instructional video for the autoharp
player, editing the song “Battle Hymn of the Republic” until it
was all but unrecognizable. The band played alongside the video,
drawing on its unique rhythms to form a cohesive, moving piece with
just a hint of a clever smirk.
The only real low-point of the show,
for me, was a crunchy version of Paul Simon's “50 Ways To Leave
Your Lover” that fell flat mostly because it lacked imagination and
also because in Paul Simon's oeuvre “50 Ways” has got to be one
of the weakest, most trite tunes.
The encore of Zammuto's set was the big
payoff for fans expecting another Books show. In attempting to
present “Zebra Butt” live, there had been some unexplained
technical difficulties. Nick had promised to come back to it, even
offering to hook up another computer that supposedly would have had
the necessary files. For whatever reason, these plans were to no
avail and resulted in one of the most awkward interstices between set
and encore I've ever observed. But out of that wreckage came the
first twangs of “Smells Like Content”, the seminal philosophical
love-letter to living from 2005's Lost And Safe. I've been trying to
decide whether this was a cheap shot – if picking out the most
instantly recognizable and moving track that you've built your
musical career on as an encore to one of your new band's first shows
is somehow a weak move. Would I have felt more gratified if he'd
chosen a “deep cut” as opposed to a “hit”? Did I feel
slightly pandered to, being reminded in such an obvious way of one of
the greatest contributions The Books made to independent music? Yes,
but also no.
There's this beautiful and sort of
tragically funny truism that appears as a sound-byte at the end of
the recorded version of “Smells Like Content” (Expectation
leads to disappointment. If you don't expect something big, huge,
and exciting.... usually uhhhh... I don't know... you're just not
as... yeah) and though Zammuto didn't roll the clip at the end of
playing the song, its unforgettable to anyone who's listened to that
song as much as I have. Thinking of it served almost as a caution
not to expect Books-caliber output from only half of the band, that
it would by its nature be the same in some ways, different in others,
and there was simply no reason to obsess over the particulars when
you should just try to enjoy it. While the high-minded creativity
that propelled The Books is present in some aspects of this project
and absent in others, Zammuto (as a band) is a new iteration in that
direction. Even if in the end Zammuto doesn't feel as wholly
imagined as its predecessor (because one half of it is literally
missing), there's plenty of merit and beauty in the music that Nick
Zammuto is still more than willing to create. And whether its fair
or not to evaluate this album against The Books' releases will stop
being a question the longer he continues to produce work and come
into his own, shedding those expectations and freeing himself for
further sonic exploration.
Here We Go Magic are crowd pleasers.
When they released the video for “Make Up Your Mind” (in which a
variety of women suffer seizures instigated by frontman Luke Temple's
mystical musical powers), they unwittingly unleashed a maelstrom of
indignation from a some overly sensitive viewers. Rather than embrace
the controversy or use the subtle sexual undertones (some YouTube
commenters noted that the “seizures” were rather orgasmic) to
generate buzz for their third album, A Different Ship, out May
8th on Secretly Canadian, they shelved the video entirely.
This decision seems baffling for a band whose video projects often
skew a bit bizarre and push some boundaries, but the choice was made
to avoid any conflict that might take attention away from the music.
That music was front and center on Thursday when the band played its
sold-out record release party at The Knitting Factory. And once
again, their crowd-pleasing nature came into play, with a nicely
rendered set that showcased the newest album and offered surprising
takes on old favorites.
Openers Glass Ghost, a Brooklyn-based
band who have cultivated a creative friendship with Temple, were a
nice compliment to the set. Offering a contemplative batch of
eerily unspooling tunes, Eliot Krimsky's otherworldly falsetto
swirled through Mike Johnson's ephemeral synths and diffused beats,
then over an unusually reverent audience. The power of Glass Ghost
lies in moody disconnect, which they achieve through an elevated
sense of fragility and a slightly autistic manner of delivery. Both
players were stoic to the point of coming off as robotic, interacting
with the audience and each other minimally, while retro video
projections flashed on the screen behind them. Though the subdued
nature of the set was unusual for an opening band, whose typical
responsibility is revving up an audience for the headliners, this
wasn't necessarily a detractor. As testament to how powerful
ambivalence and alienation can be, the tragically gorgeous “Like A
Diamond” served a perfect thesis statement, and somehow television
talk-show host Marc Summers (of all people) became the poster child
for that lost feeling.
Marc Summers is famously known as the
wise-cracking host of Nickelodeon's Double Dare, which ran
from the mid-eighties into the early nineties and pitted kid
contestants against the likes of a giant ice cream sundae and some
water balloons filled with tomato sauce; if they failed to answer
trivia questions correctly they had to take a “Physical Challenge,”
the end result of which often involved getting covered in some sort
of goo. There were a bunch of spin-offs, including “Super Sloppy”
and “Family” editions of Double Dare, which caused my
parents to buy a second television when I threw a fit because the
evening news they wanted to watch aired at the same time.
Summers also hosted What Would You Do? in which guests were
regularly doused with slime.
What does this have to do with Glass
Ghost? Well, the irony in the fact that Summers spent the better
part of his adulthood getting slimed and sliming others is that he
suffers from Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, a mental illness which
can manifest itself in a frantic need to stay immaculately clean.
That dichotomy – the disjointed sensation of wanting to
participate, be involved, stay there, to feel versus the
failure to do so despite having these emotions and knowing what is
normal, even doing what is normal but remaining out of place – is
at the crux of it of Glass Ghost's music, a lá seminal Radiohead
track “Fake Plastic Trees”. So when the projections shifted to a
distorted video recording of Double Dare (including many shots
of Marc Summers grinning through his despair) it brought not just a
wave of nostalgia, but also served as a peculiar illustration of a
much deeper theme.
the beguiling Jen Turner
For all the removed grandeur of Glass
Ghost's set, Here We Go Magic brought just as much intensity to the
stage, though it was of a different variety. Backed by bandmates Jen
Turner (bass & keyboards), Michael Bloch (guitar), and Peter
Hale (drums), Temple's enigmatic voice soared through renditions of
“How Do I Know” “Hard To Be Close” and old favorites like
“Fangela” and “Casual”. The new record was produced by
Radiohead's Nigel Godrich, who became interested in the band after
seeing them play at Glastonbury. For most of the tracks Godrich
employed a live recording technique with few digital flourishes meant
to enhance but not perfect the recordings. It's hard to say whether
that emphasis came from his initial, inspiring exposure to the band,
or if the in-the-moment improvisational methods utilized in the
studio have infused their latest performances with a newfound
go-for-broke energy. But something magical indeed happens when the
band is playing together as a cohesive whole.
It was not uncommon to see the band
extend normally unassuming musical breaks into spiraling,
extravagant jam sessions more apropos of arena rock bands, or hair
metal even. But instead of cock rock, the audience was treated to
the plaintive, dreamy “Over The Ocean” rendered epically, in all
its shimmering glory. Even if it seems overwrought for more a genre
of pop that is typically more humble, make no mistake: this is
exactly how these songs are meant to be experienced, with all
their dormant power front-and-center. It's a bold move in these
times; as the influence of technology on indie pop becomes more and
more ubiquitous, it's become increasingly uncommon to see a band who
can actually rock out but that's exactly what Here We Go Magic do,
and do well. Though Temple started this project as a solo one, he's
found some tremendously talented players whose skill is so assured
that they make each other look even better. And their confidence in
the new material truly gives these tunes a worthy showcase. So maybe
they don't need a gimmick or a controversy to propel their own hype.
No one at the show went into seismic convulsions, but the crowd was
very, very pleased indeed.
Given the infrequency with which these guys tour, I had no idea what exactly to expect from them as a live act. I got into Primary Colours when it came out in 2009, because of the song "Three Decades", which starts out seeming like disjointed a-harmonious chaos, and becomes, at the exact moment you feel you're going to lose your mind, melodious and really quite beautiful. It's like being handed a glass of cold water when you didn't even know you needed it.
To me, they are what Joy Division would have become had Ian Curtis decided not to give the ghost up. However, after I listened to more, I realized I like them for one pretty obvious reason: if all the best aspects of shoegaze and 80's new wave were to have a love child, it would be the Horrors. You could say that the former progressed naturally out of the latter, but that doesn't necessarily mean the two sound good together.
The Horrors do pull it off though, pretty brilliantly. Playing into their new-wave aesthetic, they cultivate a louder-than-life persona on stage, with Faris Badwan's freakishly tall frame in the forefront, towering over the audience, his faced obscured by a mop of disheveled hair. The rock star ethos he works pretty hard to achieve (he prefaces each song with a slur of incoherent mumblings, for example) is tempered by the spacier lo-fi, effect of all the distortion and synth they employ. This contrast alone, adds a compelling ingredient to what could otherwise be thought of as a pretty formulaic recipe.
Anyway, I'm happy to say that their songs sound as good live as they do on their albums--which I find is often a conventional indicator of any band's ability to walk the talk.
They opened with "I Can See Through You"--an angry, incredibly loud love song, that combines post-punk lead guitar lines with various iconic, 80's-esque synthy arpeggios (think "Bizarre Love Triangle"). The evening progressed from there, with most of the work off their newest album Skying including "Still Life", which I think is the track that best (and perhaps singularly) captures the above-described conceit with which they began making albums, as well as "You Said", which to me, points to where they may be venturing next: a bigger, more ethereal and instrumentally complex sound that still maintains its basic foundations as music that induces profound nostalgia. For what? Who knows. Most of us--including these guys-- weren't around then...
Some things change, and some things stay the same:
One remarkable aspect of SXSW is, of course, the unbridled
havoc it wreaks on any sense of equilibrium with which you may have arrived in Austin. As
much as you feel compelled to do so, trying to plan any sort of agenda in
advance feels intractably challenging. Somehow though, when you’re finally in
it, you manage to create discreet experiences in the throes of what often feels
like a timeless, endless loop of days and nights, stages and voices and bright
flashing lights. Unsurprisingly, it’s the point at which you acquiesce to the
cacophony of it all that things begin to come together. Trends become noticeable, for
example.
One of those trends that I ran into repeatedly, and one I’ve
been trying desperately to wrap my brain around and come up with something
cohesive to say about, is the integration of prepared (e.g electronic) music that, for instance, comes out of a box or mobile device, with live music that comes out of instruments that have existed for centuries. Most of the more notable contemporary artists whom I watched play at SXSW use prepared music (beats, samples, their own
previously recorded voices) as an instrument onto itself, whether they are
composing it all on stage and looping it over live music, or playing along
concurrently with electronic music they’ve already created, or creating more improvised moments by extemporaneously feeding the sounds their
instruments make through any handful of new and crazy effects.
To put it more simply: it seems that the line between let’s say, indie rock and experimental
electronic music is becoming increasingly more obfuscated by things like rapidly-evolving new
technology. However, there's something else to it; When I watched folks like Washed Out perform--while yes, they utilize cutting edge music recording technology on stage as as a band member in and of itself (like when Ernest Greene stepped up to start singing, he waved his Ipad at the audience in silent acknowledgement of that of which I speak), I also sensed an abiding evocation of decades-old ideas (heralded by the likes of Roxy Music and the Talking Heads, to name just a few) about the boundaries live music can test and trample altogether.
Washed Out perform "New Theory"
Live music used to mean going to see a group of people coming together to showcase their
technical proficiency, if not virtuosity, and play for you the songs you love listening to on albums at home (hopefully, if the band is at all decent). These days, you can find many of those people behind the counter at Guitar Center ready to talk your ear off about their favorite Jimmy Page riff.
But things are changing dramatically. And what it all seems to indicate and reveal, is that live music has taken
an almost defiant step away from what it has formerly endeavored to
achieve--primarily the communication of specific and nameable talents
belonging to individual band members--and toward something entirely new,
possessed of a markedly different morphology that usually includes a
glowing Apple logo. I haven't quite been able to put my finger on the pulse of this
transformation, but I know that it's due to the convergence of the
following: The rise of Apple and thus the proliferation of increasingly
advanced music editing software, the disintegration of the record
industry, and a shift in musical zeitgeist toward a movement that has
been put on hold since the late 70's and 80's.
I'm not saying it isn't exciting to watch musical virtuosity on display. Now though, watching live music--at least in this new iteration I'm describing (one that seems to be pervading so many different genres, rather than continuously spawning new subcategories of electronica as it did in the past) --is compelling due to a myriad of other performative aspects besides the technical expertise of whomever is playing.
Someone like Shigeto is a perfect example of this. While he's a great drummer in his own right, it's not his musicality that exhilarates those who watch him, nor is it necessarily the electronic components of his sets, which are also quite good. What's amazing about him, is the way in which he jumps back and forth between the electronic and live aspects of his work, juxtaposing these two different (potentially opposing) styles of music. And he toys with the opposition with brilliant fluidity, at times underscoring tensions between the two and at other times resolving it or showing how each can coexist with the other, all the while exhibiting to the audience the process he uses to compose his music. It's almost like watching a chef prepare a meal on cooking show.
Shigeto, live on Drums and Turntables, SXSW 2012
Lindsey has a great video of this performance, methinks
Anyway, so much more can be said, but for the sake of
brevity I'll leave you, for now (over the next few days I'll be posting on my
top ten shows from SXSW, the content of which will extrapolate further on all of this), with a video of Matthew Dear performing "Headcage", which I
think encapsulates perfectly the ideas I'm attempting to formulate. This is a
band whose sound hinges on the use of new recording and editing technology.
However, there is no absence of talented musicians on stage here. This stuff is
technically considered electronic music, but I think that kind of
categorical imperative truly sells it short. Enjoy please!
Because he was a photographer and not a
psychic, Jesse Frohman had no way of knowing that his now-iconic
pictures of grunge idol Kurt Cobain would be some of the last ever
shot. But judging by the Nirvana frontman's erratic behavior both
leading up to and during the session, originally commissioned as a
feature for the Sunday Observer, it wasn't hard to see
Cobain's demise on the horizon. By the time Frohman met Cobain in
November 1993, he'd overdosed once and been through several stints in
rehab. He famously appeared for the shoot three hours late, strung
out, and introduced himself to the photographer by asking for a
bucket he could puke in.
The Morrison Hotel Gallery in Soho is
showing the series of photographs for the first time as a collection.
They were shot over the course of just that one meeting, in the New
York City hotel where Nirvana was staying when they played a show at
Roseland Ballroom. There are some live shots from the show that
night and a few taken with Krist Novaselic and Dave Grohl as well.
Most of what is on display at the Morrison are straightforward
portraits of Cobain against a neutral background. He is dressed
eccentrically in a tattered leopard print coat, Jackie-O style
bug-eyed sunglasses, and an aviator cap, with a shabby tee and jeans
underneath. Chipping red nailpolish adorns his fingertips; in some
pictures he is seen with a cigarette, smoke trickling from his mouth,
in others he swigs a bottle of Evian as though it were Jack Daniels.
The images are nothing if not captivating, in spite of (and perhaps
moreso?) their repetitive quality when presented side-by-side, on a
scale literally larger-than-life.
As a whole, it's hard to tell how much
of these photos represent a Kurt that is real but coming unhinged,
and how much is Cobain simply playing the part of “rock star” -
an image that he felt was forced upon him in the wake of Nirvana's
insane successes. By the time these photos were taken, Kurt had
publicly expressed his disdain for the media, and in many ways, his
flagrant disregard for Frohman's schedule, paired with his apathetic
demeanor appearing in one shot to the next, is indicative of that.
While Frohman has said that during the shoot Cobain was easily molded
into poses and could be very dramatic in his gestures, he refused to
remove the trademark white-framed sunglasses, adding another layer of
mystery and alienation from the viewer. Interestingly enough, they
do provide the viewer with a unique insight into the artifice of the
image – you can see lighting set-ups and even the photographer
himself reflected in Kurt's lenses – and while I'm sure that was
not a meditated action taken by the subject, the fact remains that
what we are seeing are not candid shots. They are in some regard
meticulous, despite Kurt's attempt to sabotage the shoot as Frohman
planned it. Very few people really knew Kurt Cobain without the
media filter either building him into a God or shaking their worried
heads at his drug-addled antics, and as such, these images are part
of that machine. Without expressly turning his middle finger skyward
for the camera, Cobain seems flippant, defiant, aware of the fact
that everyone is watching.
On the other hand, if Kurt was as
strung out as all accounts (including Frohman himself) claim, and
taken in context with what would transpire mere months later, it is
possible that these really are images of a man with his guard down
and his back against the wall. As with any life ended in suicide,
it's natural to look back to that person's actions leading up to
their demise and pick each moment apart to try to discern just what
went wrong. Kurt Cobain had everything, and the eyes of the world
were upon him. While that pressure has been cited as a key factor in
his coming unhinged, there's really no way to know why someone so
talented and vital – or why anyone, really – would put a shotgun
in his mouth and pull the trigger as if that wouldn't have an impact
on his legacy or the world at large. It's possible that suicide was
the furthest thing from his mind in November when Frohman and Cobain
crossed paths, a camera between them. But it doesn't really matter;
at that point, Kurt Cobain's fate as one of the most iconic musicians
in rock-n-roll history was already cemented, with or without his
indelible image burned into silver emulsion.
Kurt Cobain: Photographs by Jesse Frohman is on exhibit at The Morrison Hotel Gallery, 124 Prince Street, NYC through April 23rd.
There is one question that every music
connoisseur dreads, and though it is often innocently asked, can be
astoundingly difficult to answer. It might happen at a party or an
intimate dinner gathering, on a first date, or on the fiftieth. But
inevitably, as a means of qualifying your musical tastes, future,
past, or present, it's perfectly natural for a friend or acquaintance
or romantic interest to casually wonder “What's your favorite
band?”
For some, the question doesn't invoke a
desperate clamor or sheepish backstory; the answer is permanent and
enduring and needs no defense whatsoever. For others, such as
myself, it can be a bit more tricky. It's not that I'd deny my sonic
proclivities, but my musical obsessions have been known to shift from
one moment to the next. That doesn't necessarily make my love for
any of these acts less deep, but I do end up with a quite a long list
of sometimes obscure material that sort of leaves the original query
unanswered.
Throughout most of my life, I've sort
of maintained a Top Three essential acts that I feel provide a
definite framework from which most of my musical interests can be
gleaned; with these, I try not to mention anything too obscure or
recent so as not to alienate anyone or pigeonhole myself. Typically,
one or two of these might rotate, but for the last several years my
go-tos have included Caribou and Animal Collective, which I don't
think are really much of a stretch in terms of their similarities to
one another, and pretty representative of the sort of genres I tend
to explore nowadays.
And then there's my longtime, all time,
most favorite band ever, which isn't like either of the others. As
my interests in music have evolved, there's one constant which so
completely informs so many aspects of my personality and my past that
it will never be ousted by any other act, no matter how experimental,
challenging, or prolific they seem at the time. That band is Hole.
Now, I am fully aware that Hole's early
and mid-nineties contemporaries offered far more in terms of
innovation and contribution to the history of what was to become
alternative rock, a genre that I hold responsible for my eventual
introduction into independent music. But I look to their presence in
that movement as a whole to act as a sort of stand-in for so much of
what was important to me at that time. They existed at the
confluence of grunge and riotgrrl, two forces that offered me a
precise blueprint for the way I would form my opinions, express my
emotions, and live my life from that time forward; the center of the
wheel from which all spokes of my being would radiate. If you think
I'm exaggerating, I assure you, I am not. Even my aesthetics as a
young artistic hopeful were indelibly shaped by what these bands, and
Hole in particular, offered to the world at large.
She warned me it would be this way; I
remember the specific moment I heard Courtney's gravelly premonition:
“Someday you will ache like I ache.” I saw her black-and-white
heartbreak over the loss of husband and rock idol Kurt Cobain,
writhing in crumpled bedsheets each time MTV aired the video that
accompanied “Dollparts”. My bad skin thankfully wouldn't last
for the rest of my life, but it ensured I'd never be the prom queen
on the cover of Live Through This, an album so blistering and
beautiful it felt like the truest thing in my life.
I felt a kinship to Courtney Love, an
ugly-ish girl obsessed with vanity and needing to be heard, to be
appreciated, to be loved, and able to see the loveliness lurking in
hidden, sometimes unattractive places. I watched her trashy glamour
transform into Celebrity Skin, a glittering piece of pop-rock
perfection with just a bit of a bitter underside. It arrived in an
era where girls my age were pimped for Total Request Live, their bare
bellies and pouty lips so far from anything I was interested in being
or seeing, their horrible songs the last thing I wanted to hear.
Instead I pumped “Awful” with a knowing smirk, in on the joke
even if no one else laughed with me. Courtney's impeccable aestheticism in
film, music, literature and fashion felt specifically curated for me
alone, and it was with her recommendations that I explored cultural
boundaries not typically tested by other girls my age.
But I don't often go into these lurid
details when someone asks about my favorite band, for it seems too
detailed an explanation. If I align myself with what Courtney once
was, I feel I have to amend it these days; she's become a sad, drug-addled
train wreck incapable of her former brilliance as a lyricist,
performer, or songwriter, her tastes questionable though at one time
I saw her stamp of approval as essential. And I've grown out of the
need for an idol, especially when that idol has grown into a joke.
One of my biggest regrets is never
getting to see the band perform live, never standing before Courtney with
her leg propped on the monitors, her skirt hiked up and her guitar
swinging brazenly. Her solo releases were kind of pathetic, and last
year when she revived the Hole moniker as a desperate means of
selling records and concert tickets I only briefly contemplated
buying in. It would simply not be the same without Eric Erlandson's
prolific guitar or Patty Schemel's thunderous drumming, and though
she wasn't an original member, Melissa Auf der Maur's angelic backup
a deft bass seemed essential to the equation as well.
On the eighteenth anniversary of Kurt
Cobain's death, I realized how truly essential these people were.
Though I've made a pact with myself never to patronize evil
bookselling empire Barnes & Noble, I had to make an exception
that evening - Eric Erlandson was releasing his book of prose poems,
Letters To Kurt, and would be joined in conversation with
Melissa Auf der Mar. The discussion was warmly and expertly led by
journalist Katherine Lanpher, and I was pleased as punch that Patty
Schemel was also in attendance. Through the course of the evening,
Erlandson fielded questions pertaining to his writing methods, the
hardships he had been through both during his time in Hole and the
period after they'd disbanded, and even touched on the state of
American economics, politics, and music. The conversation was
punctuated by both musical performances from Melissa and Eric as a
duet, and readings from Letters to Kurt.
Eric opened with a shimmering banjo
solo, joking that Hole had been known for their use of “traditional”
instruments; his picking became more urgent and darkly tinged as
Melissa introduced and began singing “My Foggy Notion”, a track
from her first solo album, Auf der Mar. For later numbers,
they would cover Jacques Brel's “Le Moribund” (better known as
“Seasons In The Sun”) and close with The Smiths' “Paint A
Vulgar Picture”, songs chosen for references that had been casually
inserted into Eric's writing but also for the relevancy to the somber
anniversary at hand. When Patty Schemel joined the group on stage,
the three of them shared memories of the impact of Kurt's death, and
Patty related a beautiful story about the first anniversary of his
passing, in which Hole was on tour in Europe. A Parisian youth was
waving a fanzine around desperately trying to get the band to read Kurt's interview within, and Melissa had to translate it
from French. It turned out to be a blurb about how much Kurt had
loved Hole, found Live Through This to be a brilliant record,
and thought Patty to be an exceptional drummer.
That's the thing that made the evening
(and the work presented) less salacious and more authentic than one
might expect – it seems impossible, almost unreal, but these people
were there, as an integral part, of music history in its making.
They had a hand in writing some of the most dramatic, chaotic and
prolific chapters in the story of rock music. But until now, their
voices had been drowned out by the loudest, proudest widow of the
bunch, who wore her pain on the sleeves of her babydoll dress.
Almost two decades later, Erlandson has presented a body of prose
work that attempts to approach and possibly relieve the pain that
surrounded him and his band, and reproach the mistakes made not only
by his muse, but those made by himself as well.
Which brings us to the “letters”
contained in Erlandson's book. They are seething & surreal,
hallucinatory free-associations densely packed with metaphor and
memory, lifting references from pop culture and self-help manifestos,
as incantatory as spells that threaten to rouse old ghosts. He
delivered these pieces with a sarcastic snarl, but in reading each
short chapter it's apparent that anger is not the only emotion he is
attempting to excise and examine – there is suffering, empathy,
sadness, love, wonder, admiration, envy, bitterness – each present
in varying hues to different degrees. They feel like relics from
another era, and it's true that not everyone will grasp each inside
joke or obscure reference, but that is hardly the point.
Erlandson was handed, by his own
admission, two things by Courtney – one that would kill him and one
that would save him. The latter refers to his own dark
experimentations with drugs, and the former to the Buddhist path he
has followed since becoming clean and staying sober. More than
anything, Letters To Kurt presents us with a portrait not of
the titular muse but of Erlandson himself and the journey he has been
on in the aftermath of rock stardom. The book is evidence of
whatever peace he has reluctantly reached, snapshots taken from the
path he is still on as a means of coming to terms with the past and
meeting the future head-on. He's finally stepped into the spotlight,
however reluctantly, and raised his voice, and the results are
captivating.
Like Erlandson, Auf der Mar and Schemel
have moved on from Hole but have respects to pay to this period of
their lives; Schemel documentary Hit So Hard opens in New York
on April 13th, comprised mostly of material shot while touring in the mid-late nineties, and Auf der Mar has recorded a new solo record and is heavily
involved in the renovation and reopening of arts and performance space Basilica Hudson in Hudson, NY.
For all the time I spent idolizing
Courtney Love, attempting to justify her antics to her detractors and
to myself, emulating her bravado and feeling her pain as though it
were my own, I realized on this night that so much of what really and
truly resonated with me was not her histrionics, but the music
itself. That truth had been obscured by her blazing star, and only
now, long after that comet trail has faded into oblivion, I was able
to see the earnest and authentic people responsible for the true
magic which still captivates me to this day. While the front-woman
who led them to fame and ultimately destroyed the band was trying to
be larger than life, there were always three other band members with
their feet on the ground, diligently playing with skill and grace,
waiting for a time when their own brilliance would become apparent.
I can no longer deny their place in my own journey, but I can thank
them for shaping me, and I can share in the pride of their survivals
and successes.
You can download my full recording of the conversation HERE.
Keep Shelly In Athens is the awkward
appellation of a Grecian duo who value an air of mystery. Named for
the neighborhood in Athens in which they live – not a captive
friend or lover – vocalist Sarah P and producer RΠЯ
have only released a few atmospheric, Balaeric-tinged EPs and handful
of remixes made available on soundcloud, but they've garnered a huge
amount of interest and buzz on the internet and beyond. Their clever
production incorporates occasionally hectic, glitchy breaks into
otherwise smooth, surreal grooves with dark undertones. Breathy
feminine vocals double back over intricate synths and chopped guitar
riffs to create haunting textures, and the mesh of styles and tempos
comfortably keeps the band from falling too squarely into any
category. Keep Shelly has big plans to release a full length
sometime this year, and with all the intrigue they've generated
abroad are striking out on one of their first US tours, which opened
Monday night at Glasslands.
I arrived at the venue a few songs into
opening act Jonquil's set and was surprised to see Hugo Manuel at the
helm, backed by a full band. If last summer proved anything it's
that I'm a huge fan of Manuel's solo project, Chad Valley. Under
that moniker, he's released two solid EPs chock full of beachy beats
as well as a handful of remixes that in many cases improve the
original track by leaps and bounds, all of it in heavy rotation in my
iTunes for months and months out of last year. So I'm not quite sure
how I missed the fact that he was also the lead singer in a full
band. And a good one at that – Jonquil plays an immediate, earnest
brand of indie pop tinged with the same tropical elements that make
Chad Valley's production so infectious. In Manuel's solo work, he
uses his voice more as an overarching melodic element, submerging it
under echoic or fuzzy effects, dropping it deep into his rhythmic
fray. In Jonquil, he lets it soar to its fullest expressive
potential, sliding effortlessly into falsetto and back again into its
urgent depths, brilliantly complemented by exuberant brass notes from
dual trumpets. My parents watch pretty much every vocal competition
show on television (though personally I think someone should combine
all of these into one show, creatively titled So You Think America
Has a Talented Idol Voice With The Stars?) and having seen a few
of these by osmosis while visiting I found myself thinking Manuel
would totally own any of the contestants that usually get picked for
such drivel. Luckily, he's far more focused on his own creative
output. Also, he's British, so he might be disqualified off the bat.
Keep Shelly In Athens began their set
with guitarist Stefano, drummer Angelo, and hooded beatsmith RΠЯ
alone on stage. Soft projections behind the
band featured what looked like falling leaves, or something caught in
a drift – appropriate, given the mood set by their shoegazey
instrumental take on some of their remix material. Before long, they
were joined on stage by tiny, spritely vocalist Sarah P, whose hair
fell in soft waves over her face. Considering the subtle ebbs and
flows of their dreamy releases, their live sound was much more
plugged in than I'd expected it to be, creating a moodier atmosphere
than is present in their recorded material. It was like being sucked
into a whirlpool in all the best ways. And at the bottom of this
whirlpool, a glassy-eyed mermaid awaited, cooing and sucking me
deeper into the abyss. In this hallucinatory equation, that mermaid
was Sarah P, whose voice sparked and burned with with swirling
sensuality, while Angelo's deft drumming and Stefano's hazy guitar
work took turns in the spotlight. Through it all, the mysterious man
known as RΠЯ
acted as maestro, confidently holding it
together with connecting loops, samples, and synths.
For a band who has rarely toured the US
and yet garnered so much buzz, one would think a show in Brooklyn at
an impeccable venue would have been packed to the rafters (or, in the
case of Glasslands, to the tissue paper clouds). The fact that they
played on a Monday might be partially to blame for the surprisingly
sub-par attendance, not to mention there were a handful of competing
acts booked the same evening (SBTRKT, for instance, played just
around the corner at Music Hall of Williamsburg). Still, Keep
Shelly's live shows are a great way for such a new band to experiment
sonically and cut their teeth on instrumental techniques. It's
exciting to see those wheels turning and to imagine how they'll
incorporate what works into their debut release. Even with the
current level of talent and innovation that this band presents, it's
hard to imagine their shows being ignored for very long.
My only caveat with the performance was
the closing number, a cover of The Jesus & Mary Chain's seminal
tune “Just Like Honey”. They'd posted their rendition on
soundcloud not too long ago, so it wasn't any surprise that it made
the setlist, though I found it a rather disappointing addition. This
song is well beloved by pretty much anyone and everyone you know that
gives any kind of shit about music, making it kind of obvious in
terms of choice for cover. It's also been given a splendid re-work
by Alela Diane side-project Headless Heroes. But KSIA don't change
it up enough to make it interesting, and Sarah's wilting vocal
delivery doesn't demand any extra attention. After performing such a
strong set of original material, no one was about to get even
remotely excited for such glaring retread; in fact, because they
played the opening verses rather quietly, you could hear the audience
talking amongst themselves as if the band had already finished
playing. If I could make a career of it, I would do nothing but
advise indie bands on which songs they should cover. Even if this
job paid but a paltry sum, it would be well worth it in terms of
bestowing the world (and myself) with rad remakes of awesome songs.
Since the best I can do in the meantime is write show reviews on this
blog, I've here compiled a short list of songs that Keep Shelly In
Athens should consider as replacement for “Just Like Honey”,
should any of the band's members stumble across it.
“Passenger” - The Deftones:
This might seem off-the-wall and distastefully nu-metal. But in the
wash of horrible rap-metal bands to emerge from the mid-nineties, I
will stand by both Around The Fur and White Pony as
bastions of technical wizardry, killer vocal work, conceptual
originality and oddball sexiness. And you know what? These tracks
actually stand the test of time, particularly this gender-bending,
possibly bi-curious duet between Chino Moreno and Tool's Maynard
Keenan, a tribute to unmentionable vehicular acts. Keep Shelly In
Athens' touring drummer, Angelo, would have a heyday with this one;
his rapid-fire staccato made me look over to the friend whom I
attended the show with and say “Shut up and drive.”
“Glory Box” - Portishead: This
is probably the obvious Portishead jam to cover. But no one ever
covers Portishead, though I can see why. Beth Gibbon's voice is
kind of untouchable. However, Sarah P's often wry vocal delivery is
a good match for pretty much any track in Portishead's oeuvre, and
it's no challenge to draw parallels between the two acts. They
could punch up the production to give the track an original twist
and better suit their own style.
“#1 Crush” - Garbage: I have
this fantasy that one day a bunch of chillwave bands will re-work
the soundtrack to Baz Luhrman's Romeo + Juliet song for song.
Even that lame Everclear song.
“You Oughta Know” - Alanis
Morissette: In a rare moment, I was listening to the actual radio
while actually driving an actual car, and this song came on. While
I had memorized all the words to it long, long ago, that was at a
point in my young life where I really had no concept of how
embarrassingly vehement the lyrical content of this song truly is.
I had not had any lovers at that point in my life and had therefore
not been scorned by any lovers, so while I played my Alanis cassette
pretty damn often, I really had no way of knowing what she was
getting at, even if I wasn't quite so naïve as to not be aware of
what going down on someone in a theater entailed. Now I can say
I've experienced my fair share of relationships, but none that have
ended so badly as the one that prompted Ms. Morissette to air Dave
Coulier's dirty laundry at the top of the pops. Anyway, since
hearing this song again, still alive and well on whatever fm
frequency I was tuned into that random day, I've been obsessed with
the idea of hearing some heartbroken version to replace the irate
one we're all so familiar with. Sarah P. could easily deliver a
rendition with equal parts snarl and sadness that would have blown
the socks off anyone listening.
any other Jesus & Mary Chain
song not prominently featured in a Sofia Coppola movie
Holing up in a bungalow down the street
from a yuppie mall had its decided advantages. There was a pool
(though it was a bit chilly for swiming, we stuck our sore, swollen
feet in more than a few evenings) a decent amount of peace &
quiet, a sleepy looking orange cat who was feral but friendly enough
to come say hello in the mornings, and proximity to Waterloo Records,
where Boise dream pop darlings Youth Lagoon played to packed parking
lot. The ephemeral tracks on debut album Year of Hibernation were
recorded by 22-year-old Trevor Powers, who on stage hunches over a
keyboard and wails earnestly into a microphone, while friends from
the bands he's played in his whole life back him up. Youth Lagoon have played a few NYC shows to much acclaim but
I'd been hesitant to check them out, worried that all the bleary
wonder of Hibernation would would dissipate, eroded by the
boys' precociousness, but I'm happy to say that it was in no way a
detriment. While Hibernation is imbued with a huge but lonely sound,
it doesn't suffer at all in a live setting as I had feared it would.
In fact, their faithful renditions and impassioned delivery were a
great reminder of what makes Youth Lagoon's slow-building, languid
anthems so fresh and immediate. Maybe all my misgivings were
indicative of my disdain for growing older (or feeling older,
really), and let's be real – in New York, I'd probably be
surrounded by college undergrads still suffering from acne. Instead,
I had the unusual pleasure of being encircled by a diverse audience
that even included families with children, illustrating Youth
Lagoon's wide appeal and accessibility. It was a lovely afternoon
treat, to be sure.
I headed downtown for the Village Voice
showcase at Red Eyed Fly, a bar setup I was now becoming familiar
with for its typical Austinness – divey hunting-lodge interior,
dusty patio with scraggly trees, cheap Lone Star tallboys. Outside,
L.A.-based babes Bleached were setting up. Last October they'd taken
CMJ by storm but I hadn't yet had the pleasure of taking in their
fiery, in-your-face garage rock. They blazed through a rollicking
set, slaying hearts and eardrums. Fronted by sisters Jessica and
Jenn Calvin, Bleached fully satisfies all my riot grrl leanings of
years past – they play fun, fast, and loose, in a nonchalantly sexy
kind of way, snaring you with their trashed-up brand of eye candy but
then proceeding to melt faces.
After a few songs I moseyed inside to
see Pyschic Ills. The band's 2011 release on Sacred Bones, Hazed
Dream, sees the band's culmination as blues-infused stoned-out
psych droners. Before a backdrop of thick, raggedy velvet curtains,
Brandon Davis' sprawling keys, and the thudding bass of
gothy-romantic Elizabeth Hart, backed the heavily glazed drawl and
meandering guitarwork of Tres Warren, clad in grungy denim. By now I
was convinced that everything is just louder in Texas. Psychic Ills'
normally mellow vibe was here amped up high enough to blast through
concrete, though that wasn't a huge loss. The highlight for me was
sexy slow-burner “I'll Follow You Through The Floor”, which got
treated with a little extra jamming out. Between Bleached and
Psychic Ills it was great to get a healthy dose of rock-n-roll from
some bands with a more traditional set-up, since it seemed that this
year's acts were largely favoring tables of electronics to actual
instruments.
Class Actress also played the showcase,
and falls squarely into the former category. While they did have a
drummer instead of a machine that played drum sounds, the line-up
still hinges on the guy-with-gadgets/charismatic-girl-with-mic
dynamic. When I'd first seen them it was just after their inception,
opening for Yeasayer. In that time I would say that though their
sound has not diverged much from their initial vision they've
certainly come into their own. Elizabeth Harper's carefully honed
stage persona is nothing short of rock star – she wore mirrored
shades the whole time, flitting across the stage, shimmying before
the swooning audience as if it were one of her first SXSW
performances rather than, by her count, the ninth in five days. She
performs as if born to do so; in watching Harper's flirtatious stage
moves you could just as well be watching her do a photo shoot in a
fashion magazine. This is a quality she's always possessed, but
she's grown even more bold in her role not just as singer but as
entertainer, never content to be relegated to a position behind the
keyboard she mostly ignored throughout the set. The glamour-infused
party jams from 2011's Rapprocher were incredibly
well-received by the crowd; it was hard to tell if these folks had
just happened onto the scene and become instant converts or if they
were long-term fans seeking out the chance to dance along with their
idols.
Because Saturday was not just the final
day of SXSW but also St. Patrick's Day, the streets were flooded with
a hoard of idiots dressed in green clothing, so I'd had enough of
that scene for a while. Besides, Sun Araw and Cloudland Canyon were
playing a so-unofficial-it's-practically-secret gig with some
electronic drone and psych bands at the Monofonus Press compound, a
crust-punk utopia four miles outside the downtown area in a remote
sector of far East Austin. In a maze of salvaged vintage trailers
and corrugated tin sculpture was situated a grassy stage. The trees
were decorated with blown glass ornaments and rusting basketball
hoops. There was an inexplicable pit of abandoned bowling balls,
next to which some middle-aged hippies had spread a comfy patchwork
blanket on which to mind their unwashed children. Colorful DIY merch
was spread on those over-sized spools, as were a pile of free zines,
one of which was entitled Cool Magic Tricks for Teens (I snapped that
one up immediately). Say what you will about a scene such as this,
but after unwittingly absorbing the barrage of marketing campaigns
being hurled at me by every corporation with a stake in SXSW, it was
nice to be in a space free of advertisements. Not to mention, I got
to enjoy the sedated set offered by Cloudland Canyon, whose droning,
drowned psych rock I've loved since the release of their stunning
Requiems Der Natur, a compilation of the Krautrock-influenced
vibes they'd explored in the early part of the decade. It had been
my plan to arrive in time to catch Sun Araw's set, but I'd somehow
confused the set-times and so only caught the last brilliant moments
of a few of their submerged, tropicalia-laced jams.
Cloudland Canyon's furious
knob-twisting resulted in a woozy wave of noise most informed by the
sounds on their 2010 release Fin Eaves. The crunchy,
skittering synth effects and dense, distorted guitar melodies melded
thickly in the balmy air, cascading through the leafy heights of
attendant elms. Up in the farthest reaches, Kip Uhlhorn's insistent
moan arced through these saturated compositions, acting more as
instrumental component than sonic focus. Uhlhorn's wife, Kelly, was
welcome addition to the band after the departure of longtime
collaborator Simon Wojan, her stoic electronic manipulations melding
everything together in a terrific wave of lush squall. I was so
blissed on their performance I didn't even whip out my iPhone to snap
pics or capture video, as I am often wont to do; the kaleidoscopic
magic of the Monofonus compound, bathed in the bubbling, staticky
lull provided by Cloudland Canyon, hardly seemed the place for such
obtrusive, new-fangled machinations.
A friend of mine I'd not seen in ages
suggested we meet at House of Commons, a DIY showspace in a huge
house on the University of Texas campus, so I eventually peeled
myself from my grassy slumber and headed Northwest. The campus area
is pretty revolting even with all the pledges out of town for Spring
Break, although not unlike my own experience of the sprawling OSU
campus in Columbus. Added to my deja vu and general disgust, the
fact that this friend of mine was a no show made me want to get the
hell out of there, but I figured I might as well grab some food that
wasn't made in a truck (also a big mistake; I had the most desultory
bahn mi I've ever eaten)so I started wandering around. I was hearing
music coming from somewhere, and it didn't take so long to figure out
it was coming from the back of an Urban Outfitters and the performer
was none other my girl Grimes. It was obviously packed to capacity
so I grabbed a chair from a nearby patio and craned my neck over the
fence with a few others who had been denied at the door. She seemed
to have slept in the clothes I'd seen her in last night and was still
suffering from vocal strain but as I now KNOW I've mentioned before
I'm in love with Claire Boucher, so it didn't matter.
Afterwards, I did poke around HoC a
bit, as Cleveland's HotChaCha was playing. This is a band I've
already seen far more times necessary, due to the fact that they're
from Ohio and we have some mutual friends. By the time and Jovanna
Batkovic and Co. had started bringing their YeahYeahYeahs-esque brand
of dance punk around Columbus I was kind of over that scene, but had
still admired the talented all-girl line-up for their bravado as well
as their skilled playing. Unfortunately, like most things coming out
of Cleveland, HotChaCha has deteriorated from their former gloried
state as I remember it from my youth. In this somewhat pitiful and
desperate incarnation of the band, Jovanna dramatically burned
herself with cigarettes and her friend took over the mic at one point
to perform an impromptu rap about hipsters. Weird times are still
good times, but I'd had enough of both, so it was back to
civilization for me.
I decided to do a second round Cheer Up
Charlie's, where Javelin and Teengirl Fantasy were on the bill. To
start, I'm not sure what Javelin were doing at SXSW this year; the
showcase they'd played two years ago to the day in the exact same
location made a lot more sense as that's when Javelin was really on
the rise, making a name for themselves as partytime sound collagists
who blend every style from disco to R&B to funk to pop. But
they've since established quite a reputation for themselves and as
far as I know don't have a new release coming out anytime soon.
That's not to say their presence wasn't much enjoyed; their live
shows are infused with the kind of energy usually seen in daycares
where the charges are provided with espresso shots. Cousins George
Langford and Tom van Buskirk know how to throw a party, and it's nice
to see them branching out and expanding their talents as musicians
(Tom had a guitar on stage, which he told the crowd he was learning
to play) while staying true to their DIY junk-shop pop ethos.
Shortly into the set, one of the speakers blew, but a quick change-up
gave the dudes new life and new excuses to bring the noise. All the
improvisational elements of Javelin's live shows were here as well,
from made-up-on-spot verses to a cover of “Sabotage” that Nite
Jewel tweeted was the “whitest” thing she's ever heard, possibly
because she forgot that the Beastie Boys, too, are white.
Following up such an animated
performance with the same gusto was no small challenge. Oberlin
grads Logan Takahashi and Nick Weiss are beatsmiths of the finest
order, and though their delivery of tracks from 2010's 7am was a bit
more scaled back it still had the crowd dancing. Like a bottle of
cheapish champagne chilled to just the right temperature, TGF popped
off tracks like “Cheaters” and “Portofino” with at synths and
samples at once glistening and fuzzy. The highlight of the set
featured an appearance from vocalist Kilela Mizankristos who brought
some serious soul to TGF's disco pop flourishes.
After the set, I headed to Longbranch
Inn to check out Impose Magazine's final showcase. The venue was
running behind schedule, so I walked in on the last of Xander
Harris's droney electronic set. He was followed by Sapphire Slows, a
Tokyo-based electronic composer who effectively hides behind a tiny
set-up of gadgets and keyboards and shifts around listlessly while
reproducing her submerged but polished beats by pushing a bevy of
buttons. Layering laconic vocals over her sultry compositions proved
an effective means of winning over the audience; I heard one guy
repeatedly gushing over how stoked he was to see a female truly
deliver on an electronic performance (apparently he didn't get a
chance to see Grimes?). While Sapphire Slows' rhythms are moody and
honed to perfection, there wasn't much to see in terms of her
delivery. She remained pretty stiff, her stare a bit blank, as if
trying to remember which knob to twist. It didn't help that I was
surrounded by the tallest audience ever, including a dude well over
6'5” in a Kevin-Arnold style Jets jacket that Paul and Winnie could
have also climbed into to camp out in. Every time I thought I'd
secured a spot with some decent visibility, some overgrown Austinite
would lurch in front of me. I was finally jostled into a corner
between a jukebox and the edge of the stage where I could perch while
Tearist delivered the most mind-blowing performance I saw all week.
Not knowing much about L.A. band
Tearist prior to SXSW, my only expectations were based on a glowing
review of a set a friend had caught earlier in the week.
Vocalist/feral child Yasmine Kittles stood on stage, tiny in an
oversized camouflaged hunting parka with her brown tresses done up in
a huge top knot. She carried a large, rusting table fan onto the
stage and set it to blowing, tugging her hair down around her face
and removing the jacket to reveal a tiny frame clad in black lacy
top, leather shorts, and ripped tights. The fan whipped her wildly
around wide black eyes lined with black mascara. She howled over a
sludgy backdrop of insistent beats and grinding synths produced by
her cohort, William Strangeland-Menchaca, her voice deep and
resonant. She writhed across the stage as if performing some
ritual, lifting her arms up and sweeping them to the floor in one
gracious motion. At one moment she was kneeling, at another
attempting to climb the Impose-bannered curtains. Throughout the
set, Kittles maintained an intensity in her faraway gaze as if the
seething masses worshipping her at the foot of the stage were no
present, but was also acutely aware of her surroundings, like a caged
animal searching for an escape route. The visceral, almost autistic
urgency in Kittles' performance is consistently anchored by the stoic
presence of Strangeland-Menchaca, whose rhythms sizzle and pop. They
are punctuated by Kittles' occasional swings at hammered metal box
she holds in one hand and attacks with a metallic receiver she holds
in the other, the sound coming out somewhere between a clashing clap
and electronic thunderbolt. I obviously see a lot of live music, and
I've seen performances of this nature more than a few times, but
there's simply something about Tearist that is specifically
mesmerizing, exciting, and electrifying. With Kittles' unabashed
lack of self control, you're left to wonder what she'll do next; its
as though she's suffering some intense rite of passage and every
shred of intensity is both turned inward and focused on deliverance
outward, like lava flowing from an erupting volcano.
Peaking Lights offered a mellowed
change of pace, providing the perfect comedown. While 2009's
Imaginary Falcons was a sublime piece of psych drone, it was
last year's widely acclaimed 936 that broke the band to larger
audiences. Hailing from Wisconsin, married couple Indra Dunis and
Aaron Coyes meld together swirling, heady notes with dubby 8-tracked
beats, forming a narcotic poetry. Looking ever part the opium-den
goddess, Indra swayed back and forth, alternately shaking maracas,
tickling the keys of a tiny vintage piano, and crooning into her mic,
clothed in yellow silks depicting peacocks. Coyes was a more
unassuming entity in his jean jacket, manning drum machines and
samples with an occasional shake or nod of his head. The set was
shortened by the closing of the bar, the show having run way past its
2am end time. While doped-up devotional “Amazing and Wonderful”
was sadly missing, the set was an interesting look into what we can
expect from upcoming release “Lucifer”, likely to be a bit more
playful and perhaps even disco inspired, as their most recent mixtape
indicates.
Though Longbranch had let the band keep
playing beyond last call, once the last beats faded the lights came
up and the bartender shouted, “That's it, folks... South by
Southwest is over, thank fucking God!” I'm guessing it gets pretty
grating on locals to have thousands of hard-drinking, heavy-partying
music fans descend on your otherwise quiet, quirky little patch of
dirt, even if they are stimulating your local economy and putting you
on the map in the most innovative tech, music and film circles.
I had to go meet up with my posse, who
were at that time witnessing the now infamous Vice party in which
Trash Talk prepped their wily fans to turn A$AP Rocky's set into an
all-out brawl. I waited patiently while a throng of disbelieving
revelers trudged out of the venue and into the dust, likely as
exhausted from all the insanity as I was. Nothing lasts forever, as
they say, and though I'd missed my opportunity to see more than a
handful of acts I'd really been looking forward to catching, I was
walking away having seen over thirty bands in the space of four days.
My phone had no remaining memory for photos or videos. I'd earned
eight badges in fourSquare. Including transportation and lodging,
I'd spent less that $400 bucks. And I'd be back to do it all again
next year, no doubt.
Friday dawned with a frenetic anxiety
brought on by the odd sensation that all of the fun I was having was
coming to an end. From a pessimistic point of view, my time in
Austin was half over. Though I'd not totally squandered the
preceding days the list of bands I wanted to see still seemed a mile
long. I tried to be positive, reminding myself of the two golden
days that remained, and with serious fervor began to check those
bands off the list.
First, the RhapsodyRocks party at Club
DeVille. The line-up was great, but comprised mostly of bands I'd
seen once or twice. However, the internet radio-sponsored showcase
was also throwing around free beer, beer coozies, sunglasses, and
cowbells, so that increased my desire to stick around.
I'd caught Tanlines most recently
at last October's CMJ, where they'd debuted a lot of new material.
Again, most of the set list was comprised of songs from the Brooklyn
duo's recently released album Mixed Emotions, and not only are
Eric Emm and Jesse Cohen growing more comfortable with these tracks,
their pride in this latest work is readily apparent.
I hadn't seen Washed Out since the
previous summer and, much like Tanlines, know Ernest Greene to
reliably deliver a great show. It had been almost two years since
I'd seen Zola Jesus, during which time she'd released her most
outstanding material, so I was psyched for her contribution to the
showcase. BUT I also knew that over at the Mess With Texas
warehouse, Purity Ring would be gearing up for a set I couldn't miss.
I'd been dying to see them since their release of two amazing singles
“Ungirthed” (w/ b-side “Lofticries”) and “Belispeak” but
I hadn't been able to to make it to their last NYC performances. I
couldn't resist; all I could do was hope that I'd make it back in
time for Zola.
Purity Ring's lyrically morbid but
insanely catchy pop songs are constructed with two basic building
blocks: Megan James' lilting, slightly coquetteish vocals, and the
production of Corrin Roddick, who in a live setting mans a table of
percussive lights and electronic devices. While I was definitely
starting to see this delegation of music making responsibility
repeated in band after band, Purity Ring went a few steps further
with the addition of a captivating light show that took place before
brightly-hued red, orange and teal curtains. The backdrops are
illuminated by spotlights, turning James and Roddick into ghostly
silhouettes. James is in charge of pounding an elevated bass drum at
dramatic intervals, and as she does so, it lights up like a full
moon. She also swings a mechanic's utility light around her head,
though in a controlled rather than erratic fashion. But most
impressive are the tiered lights which respond to taps and tones
within the songs, framing Roddick's mixing table. They shift from
red to purple to blue to yellow to orange, glowing through the crowd
like psychedelic fireflies attempting to attract the trippiest mate.
While all of this was exciting to
watch, the songs were the real draw. Purity Ring has kept their
material close to the chest, selectively releasing only three songs
thus far and not a note more. I had to know if they could keep up
the seething momentum those infectious pop gems had created long
enough to release an album that wasn't just filler, and I have to say
that I was not disappointed. Each offering was carefully
constructed, mysterious yet up-tempo enough to dance to, and not just
an extension of the sound they'd already built such buzz on, but a
perfect showcase for their strongest assets. There's no release date
set for the Canadian duo's full-length LP, but if the SXSW
performances are any indication we can expect more enigmatic lyrics
layered with deceptively joyous melodies and a healthy dose of
R&B-influenced bounce.
At this point, Zola Jesus was just
beginning her set back at Club DeVille, but again I was faced with a
dilemma. Over at the Hotel Vegas compound, BrooklynVegan was hosting
a noteworthy showcase of their own, and two bands I had yet to see
were slated for the afternoon – Craft Spells and Tennis.
Hotel Vegas is comprised of two small
conjoined lounges, one of which is named Cafe Volstead and has some
really swanky taxidermy mounted on equally swanky wallpaper. As part
of the takeover, BrooklynVegan had also erected an outdoor stage,
upon which snappy London-based foursome Django Django were banging out an energetic, joyful set, wearing eccentrically patterned shirts reflective
of their generally quirky pop. It might have been the mixing but the
live set seemed to be lacking some of the more creative percussion
and synth techniques present in the band's popular singles “Waveform”
and “Default”. The songs came across as pretty nonchalant, summery pop a
la The Beach Boys, whom the band has often drawn comparisons to.
Meanwhile, Inside Hotel Vegas, the dark
and pounding rhythms of Trust were a stark contrast to the daylight
scorching the earth outside. I'd seen Robert Alfons perform solo
under his Trust moniker as opening act for Balam Acab last November,
and the set was pretty similar despite having some additional band
members this time around. Alfons grips the mic and leans toward the
audience as though he is begging an executioner for his life. His
vocals sound like they're dripping down the back of his throat, which
I mean in a good way; in a higher register that same voice can sound
nasal, though even then it's often tempered by the pummeling beats
that typify Trust's music. What I find really fascinating about
Trust is that while these jams have all the glitz and grunge of 90's
club scorchers, Alfons consistently looks as if he's just rolled out
of bed without bothering to comb his hair or change his sweatpants.
Circa 1995, if you heard these songs on the radio you could pretty
much assume they were made by muscular men in tight, shiny clothing
and leather, or at least some guy wearing eyeliner. It's not
necessarily true that a vocalists' style has any import on the music
itself, and let's face it, not everyone can be the dude from Diamond
Rings. But I find myself a little worried about Alfons; he looks
like he's going to slit his wrists in a bathtub the second he walks
off stage, and given the caliber of the songs on debut LP TRST, that
would really suck.
Trust's set was dank and sludgy in all
the right ways, so I almost forgot it was mid-afternoon; I emerged
from the dark revery to see Denver-based husband-and-wife duo Tennis
setting up. Joined by two additional musicians on drums and synths,
Alaina Moore and Patrick Riley were picture-perfect; Alaina's tiny
frame exploded in a poof of feathery hair and her tall, hunky husband
looked like he would put down his guitar any second and hoist her in
his beefy arms. It's not hard to imagine these two as Prom King &
Queen. Their sophomore album Young and Old, out now on Fat
Possum Records, shows quite a growth spurt from 2011's Cape Dory,
an album mainly concerned with breezy, beachy anthems (it was
inspired by a sailing trip the couple took). Both thematically and
lyrically, Tennis have shored things up without losing their pop
sensibilities. Their set was shortened by a late set-up but
toothache sweet, mostly drawing on songs from the new record and
closing with a lively rendition of lead single “Origins”.
Craft Spells played amidst the
glassy-eyed mounted animals of Cafe Volstead, and I was beyond
excited to see them play. I've followed the band since they began
releasing singles in 2009 and was thoroughly pleased with last year's
Idle Labor, which included updates of those early demos and
drew upon them to create a cohesive 80's-inspired synth-pop gem.
Craft Spells nimbly translated the buoyant feel of favorites like
“You Should Close The Door” and “Party Talk”; heavy-lidded
crooner Justin Vallesteros seemed less the sensitive, socially
awkward recluse implied by some of his more heartsick lyrics,
fearlessly surveying the crowd and blissfully bopping to his own
hooky melodies. The boyish good looks of all four bandmates had at
least one lady (me) swooning in the audience, wanting to somehow
smuggle them out of the venue in my pockets.
I was right down the street from Cheer
Up Charlie's, a brightly painted heap of cinder blocks hunched in a
dusty lot on E 6th where electronic mastermind Dan Deacon
would soon be unpacking his gadgetry. First, I stopped at an adjacent
food truck trailer park and ate what I deemed “Best SXSW Sandwich” - The Gonzo Juice truck's pulled pork roast with carrot slaw, gobs of
schiracha cream sauce, and spicy mustard piled on (what else?) Texas
Toast. This obviously isn't a food blog, but as I sat at the crowded
picnic table I had a definite SXSW moment; across from me some guys
were talking about shows they'd played earlier and shows they were
playing later in the week. I sat there reveling in deliciousness and
simultaneously trying to figure out what band they were in based on
venues and time slots. While for most part everyone SXSW is in nonstop
party mode, many of the musicians play two and sometimes three sets a day,
and then find time to go to their friends' shows. And despite
all of the gear they have to haul and strained vocal chords and
hangover headaches, these guys talked excitedly about contributing to
that experience. Not that I didn't before, but I really found myself
appreciating that energy and enthusiasm; the passion and drive of the
musicians who come to Austin this particular week in March is the
biggest factor as to why SXSW is so exhilarating.
Speaking of enthusiasm, if you've ever
seen Dan Deacon live then you're well aware of the level of energy
necessary to survive one of his sets (and if you haven't, seriously,
what are you waiting for?). Deacon's densely layered electronic
arrangements provide a backdrop for the zany activities that he
introduces between the songs. His instructions can include interpretive dance contests, high fives, mimicry, and sometimes
chanting. He'll either divide the audience into specific sections or
ask the audience to make a circle, introduces a concept, and then
pretty much everyone joins in the fun, because the main draw of a Dan
Deacon show is the wacky outcome of hipster pretentiousness falling
away. Deacon does this at every show, making the antics typical by
now, but that doesn't mean it isn't fun, because in all of us there
is this hyperactive five-year-old who just wants to eat a bunch of
candy and jump around forever and ever, and these shows cater to that
exuberant inner child. He has a knack for turning an audience from
spectators into participants, and with the shift from the traditional
singer-guitar-drummer-bassist band model into a more experimental,
electronic-driven realm, where it's sometimes just one guy on stage
with a computer, being able to do that is paramount. Though Deacon
is normally backed by multiple drummers and a bevy of live musicians,
one unique aspect of this particular performance was that Deacon was
flying solo, so it's a good thing he's been honing his audience involvement skills for a long time. He didn't even perform on the
stage provided, but in the pit of dust with everyone crowding around
him - the bizarro ringleader of an impromptu circus. While Deacon
claimed to hate playing SXSW, no one saw true evidence of such – he
seemed rather like he was enjoying himself. He introduced some new
material, which was promising considering the fact that his last
release, Bromst, is by now three years old. His next release, a
first on new label Domino, is slated to drop sometime this year.
I was pretty excited about the awesome
acts lined up for The Hype Machine's crazy “Hype Hotel” endeavor.
I'm not sure what the space is normally used for, but they seemed to
have a good thing going in the mid-sized building; there was often a
line to get inside that stretched around the block. I'd RSVP'd and
was particularly excited for that evening's show – Neon Indian
opening for Star Slinger, guaranteed to result in an insane dance
party. Unfortunately, RSVPing didn't matter since by the time I went
to pick up my gimmicky little “key card” and wristband, they'd
run out, and I was therefore shit out of luck. Since trying and
failing to get into the Jesus & Mary Chain show the night before
had taught me a valuable lesson about not wasting time at SXSW, I
shrugged my shoulders about it (it helped that I'd already seen both
acts prior to SXSW) and decided to choose from one of the 2,015,945,864,738
other bands playing.
One of those bands was Nite Jewel, Mona
Gonzalez's solo project fleshed out by a couple of guys and a badass
lady drummer. I've remained sort of undecided about whether I really
like Nite Jewel's music; though the dreamy pop songs are not in and
of themselves particularly divisive, the music sometimes falls flat
for me. I'll listen for a minute, ask myself if I really like it,
think that I do, decide that I don't, turn it off, then inevitably
revisit it. But there are two reasons I'm siding in favor of Nite
Jewel once and for all. For one thing, her newest record One
Second Of Love is brimming with sublime pop nuggets that amplify
all the best aspects of Mona's tunes. There's still a dreamy
minimalist quality, but the songs are less lo-fi and more straightforward, more accessible. The
second reason I'm now an official Nite Jewel fan is that her show was
fantastic. Part of the eclectic Wax Poetics bill, Mona rocked the line-up with cutesy energy and just the right amount of kitsch. She danced around
next to her keyboards like the heroine of an eighties movie might
dance alone in her bedroom, and that's really the quality that imbues
all the tracks on her latest offering, and the biggest draw in
listening to them. Since the equipment set up had taken a little longer than
expected, her set was short, though to her credit Mona begged the
sound tech to let her keep going, reminding him that “They're pop
songs they're short”. While it's true that these inspired bursts of
affection issue forth in a gauzy blur, they are far from simple pop
songs, driven by her distinct personality and sound.
On my way to meet up with Annie at the
S.O. Terik showcase in the the neighborhood, I had to stop by Status
Clothing, a 6th Street storefront where 9-year old phenom
DJ BabyChino was on the turntables. Billed as the World's Youngest
DJ, BabyChino is nothing if not adorable, dressed like many of his
forebears in the requisite urban garb but in much, much smaller
sizes, and sporting large, plastic-rimmed glasses on his shaved head.
He's Vegas-based but has toured the world, though he had to stand on
a raised platform just to reach his turntables and laptop. Every
once in a while, he'd mouth the words to the old school hip-hop he
was spinning, elevating his badass status but still made me want to say “awww", which is something I've
not said of any other DJ, performer, or producer, ever. He drew
quite a crowd of gawkers, and because most of them were watching from
outside the glass windows of the storefront I started wondering if
this little guy felt less like a DJ and more like a taxidermied antelope at the Museum of Natural History. I also wondered at what age
BabyChino will want to drop the "baby" from his name, and will make his
mom stop leaving notes in his lunchbox.
I wandered far down Red River into the
woodsy area between downtown proper and the river, filled with leafy,
down-home bars. As I meandered about, looking for some friends I
was meeting up with, I heard Gardens & Villa performing “Orange
Blossom” at one of the bars. This song gives me shivers of
springtime joy; Gardens & Villa is one of those bands I kind of
ignored for a while, not for any reason other than I simply can't
hear everything, but at this point I'm super excited for their
debut record to drop and was really hoping to catch one of their sets
while in Austin. My timing was perfect in that regard but I honestly
couldn't figure out which bar they were playing or how to get in to
see them. I had a decent-ish view from the street, even if my short
stature made seeing over the fence difficult. I could hear the band
just fine and their sound was spot on. However, since this set up
made me feel like a weirdo stalker and I had promised to meet up with
my posse, I moved on.
Clive Bar had a sprawling multilevel
patio that is probably very nice when there aren't bands squished
awkwardly into a tiny area making it impossible to view the stage and
impossible to move through the cramped crowd. Because Annie is the
shit and had a raw hookup we hung out in this “Green Room” area
that was really more of a log cabin bungalow to the side of the
stage. A really gnarly painting of a nude lady with a rabbit's head
was mounted on the ceiling; all around her were bunnies in various
stages of Boschian copulations but rendered in a comic-book style. We
slugged beers in this secret, magical little den while New Build
played their poppy indie jams. Everything New Build does sounds like
it could be soundtracking some cheesy movie – whether it's funky
70's espionage flicks or 80's roadtrip rom coms. I don't know if
that's really a bad thing, especially since they tackle that task
with flair and aplomb. But I also have to admit that I wasn't paying
a lot of attention, mesmerized as I was by all the bunny sex going on
in the painting above my head, and the two semi-obnoxious girls
arm-wrestling because (I guess) they thought it would impress
whatever dudes were around. Plus, New Build are some pretty unassuming
dudes; they all wore nondescript tees in neutral colors, sported
prerequisite beards (not that you'll ever hear me complain about a
beard), and gave the impression that they were there solely to play some
songs in as understated a fashion as possible. Which they did.
When Grimes took the stage we were able
to stand in the photo bay, giving us a great view of the bizarro-pop goddess. Maybe I should mention that I have a total girlcrush on
Claire Boucher (if I haven't already elsewhere on this blog), a crush
which (dark)bloomed last summer when I saw her open for Washed Out.
Unfortunately Boucher was not having a good night - the equipment at
the venue was half-busted, and her voice was fast disappearing with
the strain of singing in showcase after showcase, making it difficult
for her to hit the falsettos omnipresent in her tunes. She swore a lot, but
she was the only one who truly seemed to mind all the technical
difficulties – everyone else was enthralled by her, dance-marching
in her futuristic get-up, tucking her mic between her shoulder and
her cheek while twisting knobs or plinking keyboard notes. While I
want to keep Grimes and her quirky woodland-sprite magic all to
myself, I'm glad everyone is as head over heels for her as I am,
because she is a true artist. The second you write her off as some
half-baked weirdo, she throws out some deep metaphysical theme, or
else she's chronicling her difficulties with intimacy in a way that's
every bit as real and accessible as someone who's half as cool. I
could go on, but I'm already embarrassing myself.
Since I was working on my own death
cough it was time to call it a night. My final day in Austin was
upon me, and I'd finally redeemed myself, in the nick of time.
